They didn’t speak until they turned onto the main road, a narrow artery through the forest, and headed west. Lydia adjusted the rear-view mirror and switched on the heater.
Erin massaged the tight muscles in the back of her neck. ‘So, what did you think?’
‘He seems to have made rather a charmed life for himself.’ Lydia dabbed her nose with a tissue. ‘Though I dare say the poor man deserves it after what he’s been through.’
‘I suppose.’ Erin cracked the window for some air and closed her eyes, drained by Stern’s high-octane enthusiasm. Like a carnival huckster flogging tickets to the greatest show on earth. Why try so hard? If he’d been dishevelled and the house a dump, the state would still be happy to send Tim there. The home visit was merely a formality, as far as the state was concerned. ‘Are prospective carers required to take a drug test?’
Lydia puffed out her cheeks. ‘You think he’s on drugs?’ ‘
I’d like to rule it out,’ Erin said, turning to look out the window. It was a habit of hers, difficult to break, to guess what medications someone might be on. Endless stands of dark spruce scrolled past. ‘What I really want to know,’ she said, closing the window, ‘is what the family was like when Tim was young.’
Lydia swerved sharply to avoid a pothole, pitching Erin against the door. ‘Sorry about that.’ The clove-scented air freshener wafted through the car. ‘But who’re you going to ask? Tim won’t talk about it. The father will say everything was fine, and the others are dead.’
True. The immediate family was gone, but there must be someone. Aunts, uncles, cousins. But even if she tracked them down, they might refuse to talk to her. Neighbours and former classmates, anyone with no emotional stake in what happened, might be a better bet. But digging into Tim’s past had a dark side. It would mean returning to Belle River. Something she’d vowed never to do. Just the thought of seeing the town again made her blood run cold.
The sky had darkened, and a few flakes of wet snow splattered against the windscreen. So much for spring. She shut her eyes again as a wave of fatigue swept through her. That photo in the den. The diamond-patterned dress and sunburst pendant had sparked a distant memory. And there was something about the dark-haired man with his arm around Stern. With only hazy recollections of the man who’d died when she was nine, and no photos to remind her, how could she be sure? But somehow, she was. Clear as a mountain stream.
The man in the photo with Stern was her father.
19
Belle River, Maine
June 1977
Smoke from the barbecue drifts through the kitchen’s screen door. Why they can’t eat off paper plates on the patio like normal people is a mystery, but the old lady’s pulled the plug on that idea. Too buggy or something. An hour ago, she disappeared to lie down, so he’s stuck in the kitchen with Izzy making the potato salad and devilled eggs. While he chops onions with a cleaver, Samurai-style, Izzy cuts the potatoes in perfectly uniform slices. He looks at her sideways, at the curious creature she’s become, hoping to catch her popping a potato in her mouth or licking mayonnaise from her fingers. But not a crumb crosses her lips. Delicate as a sandpiper, with skinny legs to match, a tiny blue vein throbs at her temple. He can’t remember when it began, his sister’s strange relationship with food.
At a quarter past six, his mother appears in the kitchen, wearing some floaty kaftan thing that looks like a nightgown. Tangerine. The colour makes her skin look bad. Her hair is flattened on one side and her eyes are glassy. Nervously, he checks the clock. At six-thirty sharp, his father will pull into the driveway, stone-faced and pissed off about something. After dropping his briefcase in the hall, he’ll head straight for the drinks cart to pour a double Scotch. If dinner’s not ready and on the table two minutes after he walks in the door, there’ll be hell to pay.
But it took ages to get the coals started, and time’s running out. The last day of school and it was his idea to celebrate with a barbecue. But nothing’s ready, and he’s a mess of nerves. Already in the doghouse, and another screw-up won’t help.
Coughing from the greasy smoke, he grabs a pair of tongs and transfers the meat onto a plate. Two burgers slither free and drop on the grass. The chicken looks dried out, and the burgers are charred. When he stumbles up the back steps and into the kitchen, his mother is leaning against the sink, a cigarette in one hand, a highball in the other.
She looks at the pile of smoking meat in bewilderment. ‘You kids did all this?’
Off in la-la land again. Not much point in talking to her when she’s got that glazed look in her eyes.
‘Clara, come on! Help set the table.’ He stands at the top of the basement steps, holding the bowl of potato salad. It’s 6:25.
His sister drags herself up from the cool nether regions of the house and into the steamy kitchen. She grabs plates from the cupboard and carries them to the table, her eye on the clock. Two minutes to go and the table is set, a paper hat at each place. The meat’s in the oven keeping warm. Outside, a party of blue jays cackle and scold in the branches of the dogwood tree.
They wait in the kitchen, nervously eyeing the clock. His mother pours another drink. At six forty-five, his father still hasn’t come. No sign of him at five to seven when his mother suggests they sit down to eat. But as soon as they’ve filled their plates, his father bursts into the kitchen.
‘Dorrie! What the hell…?’
He looms in the doorway, half-moons of sweat
